


Breaking Facebook

by HepG2



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AO3 FB 5000, Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sex Tapes, Some Plot, Steve Rogers-centric, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: A sex recording with Steve Rogers and Tony Stark found its way to Facebook. Problem is, Steve has no recollection of it ever happening. Cue a manhunt for Tony, a weird-as-heck explanation and maybe, a confession?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys probably would've known by now that I rarely write fluff and humour, but I dabble in them because I like straying out of my comfort zone sometimes. For the returning readers, I know I'm behind my Heroic Ages series, and the Keeper series. I'm working on them, and I want to thank you guys for your support :) 
> 
> In the meantime, I want to share with you this short-fic to celebrate the AO3 Writer group on Facebook, for welcoming 5000 members, whoo! This is a fun event that the admins are putting together (hence the AO3 FB 5000 tag). 
> 
> Please enjoy! As usual, comments and concrit of all shapes and sizes are most welcomed!

December first, it’s a Friday, and eight-thirty in the morning. Hello, Manhattan. Steve Rogers pulls the sheets off his waist and makes no heed to the snow blanketing the streets below, if only he bothers to look out of his window from the forty-fifth storey. Anyway, since it’s December, he’s expecting the Tower to get lit up at night like a giant, phallus-like Christmas tree – screams of Stark in every way imaginable – so he might as well do the sight-seeing after dinner.

 

December may not start off as well as he thinks, beginning from the multiple eyebrow raises, deer in the headlight looks he keeps getting as he makes his way to the staff kitchen. There’s one at the end of forty-fifth storey which is meant for the Avengers’ personal use, but he enjoys having his meals with some company. This is hardly the first time Captain America has wandered the commoners’ floor to get himself breakfast for a champion, so he greets every passing employee with a courteous “Good morning!” and eventually, “Is there something on my face? What is it?”

 

He’s not the only one with the brilliant idea of sharing meals with non-superheroes. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton have already polished their cereal bowls, and both are waving at him from the table they are seated at. Steve gratefully joins them, this time adamantly refusing to acknowledge a scowling janitor who mutters under his breath, “Faggot.”

 

“Steve, over here!” Natasha hollers, and Steve decides to shelve it.

 

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Clint offers Steve a basket of garlic bread. If by beautiful Clint means the bleary sky and streets covered in sleet, sure, why not? “I bet your Facebook wall must be bursting with posts.”

 

“… I don’t have a Facebook account. Pass me the forks, please? Thanks.”

 

“You don’t have a Facebook account?” Natasha dabs at her lips with a paper napkin. “Interesting. Have you by any chance, uh, seen Tony around? On your way here, maybe?”

 

“No.” These eggs are delicious! His compliments to the chef. “He’s supposed to be here. We’re scheduled for a meeting with Senator Briggs in DC next Tuesday, there are concerns that we need to discuss over before we lay out recommendations.” Natasha’s phone chimes, and Steve takes a swig of coffee from Clint’s mug. “It’s not sustainable for Stark Industries to be billed continually for damages, not when Tony is already privately funding the Avengers operation. The President wishes to transfer that authority to a new subcommittee called Damage Control. It’s not…” Under the table, Natasha seems to be sliding her phone over to Clint, who looks down to his lap and gapes at whatever it is that’s playing on the screen. “… an arrangement that Tony is comfortable with. Is there something going on that I need to aware of?”

 

Both Clint and Natasha look up and shake their heads in unison. Steve chews his breakfast slowly, and he turns around. _Fifteen_ other heads flicker as they turn away, and Steve sets his fork on his plate with a resounding clank. “Huh. Anyway, since _you’re_ the one with the phone, mind calling Tony for me? Ask him where he is, because if he’s not coming down for breakfast, I’m going out for a quick supply run. Ask him if he’d like me to get anything for him?”

 

Natasha schools her expression back to neutral, and whips her phone out in full view. “And, sent.”

 

Steve finishes his food and waves them off. Unpredictability may be in Tony’s blood, but he’s not one to miss meetings, mini or landmarks. He’s disciplined to a militaria standard, wild and out-of-the-box when it’s required of him. Which is why Steve finds himself prowling the corridor of Tony’s private workshop, the one that is currently dark and quiet save for the background humming of idling machineries.

 

Is Tony even in _New York_?

 

Steve puts on his down jacket and skips into the wintry morning. Things get odder from hereon. People in modern New York tend to keep to themselves on a bright, summer evening and become even more subdued towards year-end but _now_? Steve counts six strangers fist-bumping him and one actually screamed, “I knew it!”, his breath fogging up between their faces. Steve promptly looks up in the sky in case there are three giant moons hanging or something, because this _can’t_ be planet Earth anymore.

 

He pays for a pair of toothbrushes, a toothpaste and shaving cream to share, and receives two more high-fives on the way out of the shop. Only when he walks past a Samsung store with two rows of gigantic TV screens mounted to the wall in their preview window does Steve stop clean in his tracks. Upon watching what’s currently playing on CNN, he nearly drops his purchases and lower jaw.

 

_An anonymous user going by the name Hacktz, whose account has since been taken down, shared this three-minute video clip on Facebook. It racked five thousand views within the first minute, and has since gone past the fifteen million-count within the first three hours of sharing._

 

Two men are making out someplace Steve cannot recognise, but Guy A is most certainly Tony Stark, and Guy B is… this cannot be right, _right_? He would’ve remembered smooching Tony if they ever did, but he _does not._ They don’t look like hired performers either. Or doppelgangers – no, he’s seriously watching himself and Tony lip-locking, hands snaking under each other’s clothes. Oh, oh, as if this cannot get worse, the video cuts to a tastefully captured scene in which his hip is joined with Tony’s buttocks, and cue a lot animalistic grunting and thrusting and –

 

“Captain Rogers?” Someone just tapped on his shoulder, and Steve turns his heels, his cheeks and nose as red as Rudolph’s. “I’m glad that you’re on our side. The LGBT community thanks you and Mr Stark, for coming out, I mean, we’ve come a long way, Captain. Thank you.” The man – young, barely out of his twenties – shakes Steve’s hands and hops off into the snow.

 

Steve turns back to the TV screen, but the news anchor has moved on to Sports.


	2. Chapter 2

“I want a report on Stark’s come-and-go’s in the last twenty-four hours. I want to know when he left the Tower, what car he drove in, what _breakfast he ate._ Leave no stones unturned. Send an hourly report direct to the Avengers line, and any sighting of Stark is to be reported via Avengers comm _immediately._ Are we clear?”

 

Clint, Natasha, and Vision, all lounging on the three-seater in the Avengers’ activity room let a beat or two of awkward silence passes before nodding hesitantly. Natasha actually twirls the edge of her bang with her long index finger and asks, “Are you sure you’re not overreacting? I mean, I can vouch for everyone that we honestly, do not care what you and Tony do behind locked doors –”

 

“There is _nothing_ going on between us behind doors, locked or not –”

 

“If it’s fake news, let it go? It’ll simmer down, given time.”

 

Steve huffs indignantly, and points at the ceiling. “Does anyone else find Tony’s sudden absence disquieting?” He shakes his head. “No, there’s something more to this, and I need answers. Are you helping me locate Tony or not?”

 

“… Aye, aye, Cap.”

 

Steve is no slouch either. He heads for Tony’s private suite on the topmost floor soon after, and keys in his access code, the one that Tony gives Captain America for use in emergency situations. Like this one, dammit. _Now_ sure is the effing time. The suite is a riot of activity much like Tony’s basement workshop. The recessed lighting slowly comes alive as motion sensors detect Steve shuffling into the still bowel of Tony’s lair. It still looks lived in, so Tony must’ve just upped and left not too long ago. Suspicious… very suspicious… and Steve promptly pushes an unremarkably bright, red button installed next to the fridge.

 

“Welcome, Captain Rogers,” a cool, dispassion voice coos into the space.

 

“JARVIS. Where is Tony?”

 

“You are not cleared to receive that information, Captain.”

 

Steve runs his fingers through his hair. “Fine. Can you patch this line to Miss Potts’, please? She should be at the Malibu campus.”

 

“… Of course.”

 

It takes two beeps before Pepper picks up the call. She does not speak immediately into the phone, and it drives Steve up the wall because he neither has the time nor patience to deal with _yet_ another streak of out-of-character display. Not from Pepper, whom he believes would be the last sane person standing on Earth, all things considered.

 

“… Who is this?”

 

“Pepper? It’s Steve.”

 

“… Hello, Steve.” There, that tinge of hesitation there, and no follow ups after the full stop.

 

“Is Tony with you? We have some pressing issues to comb over before we head for DC next Tuesday. I appreciate if you can tell me where he is.” Because, Steve is this close to driving down to the nearest police station and reporting a case of missing person.

 

“He is here,” she begins slowly. “He says he’ll be in touch with you as soon as he can. There’s some… last minute designs he needs to work on. It’s for the Long Island plant, the Chief Engineer has been trying to get it dismissed, says it doesn’t adhere to safety regulations. Tony won’t hear any of it, so he’s… you know…”

 

“Being Tony. OK.” Everybody and their mothers know first-hand how difficult Tony can get when fussing over his trinkets. “I’ll call back later. Thank you, Pepper.”

 

Everybody and their mothers _also_ know to what bitter end Pepper will go to put out Tony’s fires. Lady has done it for half the time of her burgeoning career – which is spectacular, by all means – so Steve next dials Rhodey’s cell phone.

 

“Jim? It’s Steve. How is DC?”

 

“Captain. Uh, yeah, DC is fine. Cold, like everywhere else. How do you do?”

 

“Is Tony with you?”

 

“… Yeah. As a matter of fact, we’re just about to go out, get some Chinese. He’s in the washroom, some big business he’s doing there.” Rhodey chuckles nervously. “I guess he’ll have to call you back later, if you want to speak with him, that is.”

 

“No, I’m good. Just checking. Swing by the Tower someday. We should catch up.”

 

Great.

 

Steve cuts the line with a jab at the communication pad more forcefully than necessary, and marches off in righteous indignation. Two steps in, and he paddles back to take a closer look at the fridge. Specifically, at a piece of handwritten note stuck under a shield fridge magnet saying “REMEMBER: STRK-2188, Expo, Dec 1 to 4”.

 

That’s good enough for Steve.

 

Two hours of driving sensibly from Manhattan to Flushing Meadows and resisting pulling a Schumacher down I-95, he parks outside of Complex B, next to a dashing Audi R8 with the words “STRK” emblazoned on the plate. He’s on his own from here on out, and if it takes him trying out a thousand doors and windows and turning this building inside out in his manhunt for Anthony Edward Stark, then _so be it._

 

Turns out, Tony is camping out in the largest exhibition hall situated along Complex B’s foyer. Can’t miss it. Its boomboxes are screeching “Back in Black” and the screen as wide as the length of the stage itself is playing _the_ sex recording Steve swears has been permanently etched into his retinas. Somehow, the buffering bar with the status “Deleting…” does not assuage the annoyance that is bubbling under Steve’s façade of nonchalance. He grips the handle of the floor-to-ceiling door – those implements that can only be moved by either machineries or three other men throwing their body weights at to get an inch of movement? – and effortlessly pulls at it that the door swings to a close and slams right behind him.

 

Tony starts in his seat and drops the screwdriver he’s holding, and what little colour left in his face disappears completely.

 

“… Hey, Steve.”

 

“ _Tony._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

“I can explain!” Tony holds his palms out in a placating manner, as Steve purses his lips and crosses his arms across his chest. As far as he’s concerned, he’s cleared his afternoon schedule specially for this moment of truth.

 

“I’m all ears.”

 

He can hear the cogs whirring in Tony’s head, no doubt running through hundreds of bullshits he thinks he can get pass Steve’s radar. Kudos for effort, but five years of hanging out with Howard Stark during the War had him prepared constantly – mentally and physically – for anything and everything. The same precociousness runs in the blood, and Steve is willing to bet all his 40’s monies that _absolutely nothing_ that will soon come forth from that moustached mouth, will shock him.

 

“It’s BARF.”

 

“… I don’t disagree.”

 

“This.” Tony points at a headpiece clipped to his forehead. It has a ocular lens hanging over his left eye, hooked to a metal band that wraps around his brows like a high-tech crown. “I call it the Binarily Augmented Retro Framing, otherwise known as BARF. In my defence, I was too busy debugging it, so I didn’t put in enough effort into uh, naming it.”

 

“Is Stark Industries dabbling in pornography now?”

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Rogers. Language!”

 

“You want to explain that elephant in the room?” The video playing on the giant screen behind Tony might’ve been muted, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess what’s spilling from virtual Steve’s mouth, currently moulded into a vulgar “O”.

 

“The circuitries in this headband connect directly with the user’s hippocampus. It’s meant to access certain… traumatic memory – no, listen! – for alteration and projection of said memory onto an external infrastructure, in this case, a video editing software while simultaneously projecting said uh, graphics, onto a screen like this one. I save all my videos on my private server, in Malibu – guarded by my biometrics and Pepper’s, just in case – for future processing. The point of this technology is to allow users to re-experience said… traumatic experience, and learn to work towards overcoming it. It’s a sixteen-billion-dollar worth of therapy.”

 

“And it works? You get to,” Steve waves his hand impatiently at the now-thankfully darkened screen, “tap into your head and view these memories? And how are they _memories_ because –”

 

“Yeah, they’re not. You and I never, uh…” Tony’s frantic gesturing at the space between Steve and himself is rather unnecessary. “Here’s the thing. The human mind is a wonderful petri dish for actual long-term memories and _fantasies_ in which the sky is the limit.”

 

Steve cocks an eyebrow, comprehension dawns on him like a tonne of brick. “This is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

 

“The sky is the limit, Steve. This is as – as ridiculous as it gets – don’t deny it. Your face tells me it is. I need to be sure if BARF can access other stuff in our noggin. Think about it! A therapy is hardly useful if it also allows users to relive fake experiences. Imaginations. BARF is not an enabler. It’s supposed to be that much-needed slap across the right cheek.”

 

“Doesn’t explain how this gets onto CNN.”

 

“… About that.” And Tony’s voice trails off as he bends down to collect his screwdriver from the floor. “I’ve had several… unfortunate run-ins with this schmuck who calls himself ‘Ghost’. I don’t have a name, or a face. He freelances as an industrial saboteur, hitting corporations that he sees as corrupt – and that includes Stark Industries, apparently. His attacks are usually small-scale and easily resolved, so I don’t bother updating his particulars on the Avengers’ watch-out list. My fault. Don’t look at me like that. I’m an honest businessman! I play by the rulebook, pay my taxes on time –”

 

“Get that off the Internet, will you?” Steve exclaims in exasperation. “What message are we sending out to the people? Have you seen the view count on that video clip?”

 

Something inside Steve clenches at Tony’s crestfallen features. “Is this what you think of me, really? Does this embarrass you?”

 

“I don’t mean it that way –”

 

“Pepper is arranging for a press conference as we’re having this friendly chat, and I’ll be holding an official demonstration of BARF. For what it’s worth, this is free publicity for the product, so chillax, Rogers. I’ll clarify with the public – once and for all – that it’s still riddled with false positives, and this never happened, and _will_ _never_ happen.” Tony claps his hands over his knees. “Happy?”

 

What remains unspoken is Steve’s niggling worry that something more sinister might be at play here. Like, Loki. Maybe Loki lay his Asgardian hoodoo on Tony and mind-control him into doing this. Loki got one of them before. Or, maybe there was a blackmail going on. All valid concerns, but Steve can’t bring himself to justify them, so foolishly, he shrugs and says, “OK.”

 

“Great! You’re fine and dandy and all that, Cap, but you and I just aren’t meant to be. Now, hurry along. I have some six-million potential customers to appease.”

 

Steve closes the hefty doors behind him – this time, with a gentle tap instead of a ferocious slam – and slumps against it. He stands there for a whole minute, but AC/DC doesn’t blare from the speakers anymore. Steve leaves the Expo grounds after that, making his lonesome way back to Manhattan, still as burdened as before.

 

By nightfall, Steve decides to hell with everything because he owes an old friend an apology for wrongly assuming Tony is doing this for kicks and giggles, as if this incident has no implications on him and his company at all. Steve brushes his teeth and waits until it’s close to nine o’clock, assuming Tony will be home at this hour, and then makes his ascend to Tony’s private suite again. The front door is unlocked, which itself is not odd. There’s minimal lighting escorting his way upstairs, also not odd. The bedroom door is ajar, and Steve drops his posture to a quiet creep, because _that_ is odd…

 

There’s a scratching and pawing sound, a soft sigh, and a depressed grunt – Steve’s heart leap to his throat, his hand quickly reaching into his pocket for his phone. He has Tony’s doctor’s number on speed dial, and is about to sprint into the bedroom when –

 

“ _Steve,_ Christ…”

 

Another low moan breaks the silence. What it means is unmistakable – what Tony is doing in the confinement of his own goddam room, door open and inviting – and Steve retreats, a step at a time, until he’s all the way back in the elevator going back to the forty-fifth floor, wondering if _this,_ he could ever fix.


	4. Chapter 4

December second, it’s a Saturday, and seven-oh-five in the morning. Hello, Manhattan. While still lying on his back, head nestling in his pillow, Steve Rogers pulls the sheets off his waist and turns off his bedside alarm. He hasn’t slept a wink all night, having stared at a light brown spot in the northwest corner of the ceiling. He would’ve counted the number of street lights lining the sidewalk forty-five floors below. _Nothing_ he tries can take his mind off what he heard and imagined had taken place in Tony’s private quarters ten hours prior.

 

“ _Seriously_ …”

 

And Steve drags the blankets back over his hip, not wanting to deal with his raging morning wood.

 

Eight sharp, Steve drops by the Avengers’ dining room for breakfast. Solitude is money, and so is Tony, so Steve’s heels squeak to a halt at the sight of Tony in the flesh, shoving gluten-free waffles down his throat.

 

“Morning,” Tony grunts, not bothering to even grace Steve with a glance. His eyes are glued to the newspapers, a shallow frown set on his features. Steve shuffles to the counter for coffee when from the corner of his eyes, he spots Natasha and Clint tapping on the remote frantically. He tracks the direction said remote is pointed at, and takes a cursory look at the TV screen, and… boom.

 

“You said you were removing it from the Net, Tony!” From this vantage point, Tony’s expression remains hidden from him, but the crinkle in the newspaper says it all. “Why is it _still_ on CNN?”

 

“I’m working on it!”

 

“ _Are you_?”

 

“What’s with that accusatory tone?”

 

He’s a syllable close to dressing Tony down when Vision phases through the far wall and greets them all with a monotonous “Good morning”. Only then does Tony break eye contact to continue perusing his papers, leaving Steve to stew by himself beside the half-empty coffee pot. This isn’t how he imagined morning will be like should he bump into Tony. He’s thinking, a lot of flustering, a sliver of awkwardness to prance about. Not an urge to wring Tony by the neck so he would treat this issue with twelve percent more urgency.

 

Coffee spills onto the table top when Tony laughs into his mug. “Wow – talk about silver lining.” He holds his phone out, and Steve takes it. “It’s the Senator. Read her e-mail.”

 

_In light of recent events, should you decide to postpone our meeting about the Damage Control initiative, we can reschedule. Briggs._

 

Steve looks up from the screen, and narrows his eyes at Tony’s foxy grin. “No, Tony.”

 

“It’s politics.”

 

“It’s taking advantage of this CNN-bullshit and vying for the public’s sympathy, to sway Congress to our agendas.”

 

“Boy, you know me so well.”

 

This plight – strangely enough – humanises Captain America and Iron Man. Read the banner! Societal outcasts for their queer orientation. Gays not taken seriously, not fit to champion national ideologies on freedom of speech and expression of lifestyles. Keep harping on their hypothetical romance, if Congress were to say “No” to the Avengers’ proposals, the people will sooner leap and scream, “Homophobes!”

 

Never mind that Ghost is probably the root of all problems. They can only play with the cards they’re dealt with.

 

Steve places the phone face up on the table with a curt tap, and slides it towards Tony’s plate of waffle. “Bring the date up to Monday. We’re leaving for DC after lunch. That should put enough pressure on Briggs and her council. Cite the press conference for BARF as a reason.”

 

Dark brows creep upward until they disappear in Tony’s hairline. The slight curve on his lips blows up into a full shit-eating smirk, and he says, “Pleasant doing business with you, honey.” He pats Steve jovially across those jeans-clad, granite buttocks, and exclaims, “I’ll handle the logistics. You better pack up!” before promptly skipping out of the kitchen. His absence leaves a vacuum so noticeable that Steve – for once – doesn’t quite know what to do with his limbs as he loiters by the table like an idiot who just got stood up by his date.

 

Natasha coughs lightly into her fist. “Well, that’s… adorable. Happy honeymoon, I guess?”

 

To that, Steve exhales slowly, and holds his tongue. He helps himself to Tony’s leftover waffles, and wonders if it’s worth playing up their PDA in exchange for authority over city clean-ups post-Avenging. That question answers itself that evening, six sharp. The main entrance to the Tower’s foyer is ajar, and it’s noticeable because it’s the _freaking winter breeze_ blowing in, and the commotion alone?

 

“I’m _withholding_ comments – look, Sir, if you want to speak with Captain Rogers, you’ll have to make an appointment, _like everyone else_ –”

 

“Mr Stark! A word please!”

 

“Mr Stark! What is the reason behind exposing this video on Facebook? Do you suspect malicious attempt by a specific group, perhaps a case of defamation –”

 

“Mr Stark!”

 

“Look! It’s Rogers! He’s by the elevator!”

 

Tony turns back and locks eyes with Steve, annoyed that his singular effort in holding down the fort has just been rendered pointless. An overenthusiastic member of the press – one of Fox’s, Steve notes – pushes past Tony to get through the door. Tony grabs him by the elbow and yanks him back, half-shouting over the chaos, “This Tower is off-limits to civilians –”

 

His words got cut off, he’s falling, and the next thing Steve knows, he has one arm fastened around Tony’s chest, and another holding the crowd off.

 

“Captain!”

 

“Mr Stark!”

 

It’s all Steve can do to herd Tony back into the safety of the Tower’s foyer, using his glorious super-soldier physique as a physical barrier between them and the clawing crowd. Vision phasing through the ceiling is most welcomed – at the nick of time – and he hovers six feet off the ground. He has a smile on, so warm it could melt the snow, and Steve blinks in amusement when the crowd starts _pounding_ thin air.

 

“Just a temporary barrier, Captain Rogers,” Vision explains coolly. “For both your safety. Retreat. Agent Romanoff and Barton are on their way.”

 

Right on cue, two figures whisk past them, and Steve instantly tightens his grip on Tony. Natasha flings her brilliant red hair over her shoulder as she cocks her head, a muted instruction to get the hell back in while they handle this.

 

An instruction Steve obeys with much thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

As the door to the foyer’s main entrance swings shut behind them, the pandemonium ebbs. They make a beeline for the elevator – the one that serves only the Avengers base, and they go upmost to Tony’s suite. This ride would’ve been ten times more awkward if not for the Muzak, a recent addition to all the Tower’s elevators because Steve made an off-hand comment about how there used to be music playing in their elevators. It used to be Bach? Beethoven maybe? Certainly not Black Sabbath in jazz.

 

The elevator chimes, “Welcome home, Mr Stark” and still they remain huddled in their respective corner, neither making the first move to get out. So, the door closes again.

 

“… I mean, it _is_ a nice elevator,” Tony quips lowly.

 

Steve jabs at the button and takes Tony by his elbow. He steers them both through another door of frosted glass. “Your security needs upgrading. Stop leaving your door unlocked.”

 

“On the contrary. It’s biometrics guarded. Yours just happened to be on the list of to-approve people –” A sharp hiss from Tony stops Steve dead in his track, and he looks down, realising belatedly that he’s still squeezing the life out of Tony’s hand it’s about to go gangrenous. A bruise has already formed inches above of where Steve’s fingers are curled protectively around Tony’s forearm.

 

“Don’t baby me –”

 

“Sit down. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

 

Rarely a minute passes by in silence when Tony Stark occupies said space. _Ten_ has, and the tension is thick enough for Steve to crack with his shield. He applies salve generously over the blemish, and Tony holds both arm and tongue still. The sooner they get this done and over with, the better.

 

“Thanks,” Tony folds his arm back and winces. “I’m uh, gonna go and pack.”

 

“Take off your shirt.”

 

“… That’s a bit too forward, isn’t it?”

 

“You can’t fool me, Tony. Take it off. Let me see it.”

 

There’s only so many times one can hide behind snark and wit. Steve has seen it all first-hand. Tony downplaying his generosity with nonchalance, masking his grief with nonchalance. Pretending he doesn’t care, so that when it hurts the most, it won’t matter.

 

“That was reckless behaviour.”

 

“No, that was heroic.”

 

An ugly splotch of reddish purple blooms magnificently under Tony’s right breast. An errant ribbing from an elbow, perhaps. A sucker punch. _An attack_ , is all Steve sees, and his jaws clenched as he sets to work. “Should’ve waited for backup before you confront them –”

 

“They were coming for you! I didn’t –” Steve’s finger freezes over a ribcage, and Tony takes a deep breath. “Didn’t think. It just happened.” He clears his throat. “Avengers look after each other, right?”

 

They’re running low on salve.

 

“After the discussion with Briggs, I’ll come forward and put a stop to this circus,” Steve says. “These rumours won’t do well to your image.”

 

“My image? What image? Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually fine with this. I’m not embarrassed – I rather enjoy myself.”

 

This pretence… it’s about time they both quit the charade, isn’t it?

 

“Steve, look. I’m sorry, alright? I got ahead of myself, I’m not considering your… feelings. This must be hard for you.”

 

“… What makes you think this is hard on me?”

 

“Because you sulk all the time? You won’t look me in the eye after you drop by the Expo. See? There. _That._ Eyes up here, Rogers. I _promise_ you, I’m gonna throw money at this issue until it goes away, permanently. After we deal with Briggs and her lackeys. Cross my heart and a couple of blank cheques.”

 

“… You want to make it go away?”

 

“I admit I’m many things, but I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

 

At once, Steve refastens his grip over Tony’s wrist. “Stop _lying_. Your heart is racing.”

 

“No, it’s not. Let go – it’s been a long day. What do you want from me?”

 

“I’m sorry it took me this long to notice.” Once the floodgate is opened, there’s no stopping it. Steve’s hold on Tony grow lax, but Tony doesn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, that I’ve made this unnecessarily hard for you. I’m also sorry, for not thanking you enough, for having me. Here.”

 

It takes Tony three blinks and five full seconds before he replies intelligently with a “ _Huh_?”

 

Steve reaches around his neck and undoes his dog tags. His few mementos from the bygone. His anchor to the living and dead. A reminder of why he’s still fighting, seventy years after the War, and what hope feels like.

 

He gives them all to Tony.

 

“Oh hey, no, no. This thing is _loaded!_ I can’t have this!”

 

“I woke up after the War, I was lost. I’d lost everyone. Fury gave me a job, and another, and I went along with it. Just going through the motion. Then, I found you, and you gave me a home.” Steve breaks into a wan smile, and Tony looks down at the dog tags. “The thorn in my side.” He chuckles, and Tony’s lips grow thin in annoyance. “You’ve always been by my side. Right me from wrong. You’re a good man, Tony. A good friend.” And Tony looks so confused, like he’s about to cry. “Forgive me if I’m reading this wrong. Is there something more here, between us? For us to build on?” The shock registers on his features, and Steve shakes his head. “Just think about it. Regardless what your answer will be, I meant for you to have this.”

 

Regrets. That’s the one thing he can’t let go, the one thing he can’t fix, even if God Himself bestow him with a second chance. It happened with Peggy, with Bucky. Twice was really enough.

 

“I just finished thinking,” Tony suddenly exclaims.

 

“… OK.”

 

“I can’t wear this, or any necklaces for the fact. They interfere with this.” He taps at the arc reactor concealed under his shirt. But, the meaning is clear. Steve nods, and is halfway to reclaiming the dog tags, when Tony grabs them away. “Who says I’m giving this back?”

 

“I’m –”

 

“Just checking – you’re really you right? No candid cameras, you’re not, for example, fucking Barton in a disguise, are you?” And good God, Tony starts _prying_ the very flesh under Steve’s ear, in his attempt to probably peel Steve’s face off his skull.

 

“Mind your damn fingernails –”

 

“This is a nightmare!” Tony eventually moans, and his mouth widens in mock horror.

 

“Fine. You want to be like this?”

 

“Oh no, no. Wait! If this were real, you would’ve kissed me. Or is that too forward?”

 

So, Steve leans in, and plants a chaste one on Tony’s chapped lips. This is how go-for-it feels like? Steve much prefers this over the bitter aftertaste of regrets. And Tony begins to grin, his _teeth_ pressing into Steve’s lips. All the missed chances, those lost years – they make sure this count. Foreheads now resting against one another, they bask in each other’s company.

 

Feels just a little _odd._

 

God, what took them so long?

 

Next Monday morning, on the steps of Capitol Hill, as they ascend shoulder-to-shoulder, a slew of press crews surrounds them, pressing for answers. Tony takes all the questions in his stride, his voice rings true. He apologises that the issue got out of hand. He reiterates that the Avengers are on this case. There’s an industrial saboteur to be held responsible. He tells them that they mean no disrespect, and they’re grateful for the outpouring support that has come forth since the clip was shared on Facebook.

 

“So, are you and Captain Rogers together?”

 

To that, they exchange knowing smiles, as Tony waves them off and continues his way up the steps.

 

Nothing like this can be kept secret for long anyway. Not that it’s anything insidious, something forbidden to be partaken in the shadows. Steve knows he’s only beginning to embrace this whole-heartedly. And when the news _finally_ does get out, he bet they’ll be breaking Facebook again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's done! Thank you so, SO much for your lovely reviews, and your support. Working on this and sharing it with you have been such a pleasant experience :) Love you guys, and I hope to see you soon in our next adventure! Take care! <3


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